


March

by Strummer_Pinks



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Effect of Violence on the Community, F/F, F/M, March for Our Lives, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, School Shootings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-04-01 00:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13986342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strummer_Pinks/pseuds/Strummer_Pinks
Summary: Two months ago Mr. Gold, a history teacher and single father was seriously wounded in a deadly school shooting.  Though he has adapted somewhat to his new physical limitations, he now finds himself too mentally traumatized to return to teaching.  He feels ashamed of his constant panic attacks and his dependence on his teenage son Bae.  When Bae attends a March break camp for a week, Gold is left at loose ends.  After being approached by former student David Nolan whose twin brother James was murdered at the school, Gold decides, despite his reservations, to attend a public protest outside the Florida state capitol in Tallahasee and realizes the profound effect the shooting has had on different members of the school community.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> XXXXXXXX
> 
>  
> 
> This story was inspired by the shootings at Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School and the Pulse Nightclub in Florida and the brave student activists who have decided that enough is enough. Please America, listen to them.
> 
> Does one person's "freedom" to enjoy a gun whose only purpose is for shooting people, outstrip another person's freedom to be alive? 
> 
> Guns aren't allowed in the Florida capitol building, but somehow are allowed in schools. So who are the real cowards here?
> 
>  
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS
> 
> Obviously, if reading about events like these causes you more distress than you can safely deal with right now, please don't read this. I have also found myself feeling sick and oversaturated with all the news coverage. One thing that my story does have, that I think is very lacking in the news coverage is that it isn't focused on the perpetrators of these crimes, but on the dead, the injured and families left behind whose lives have been irrevocably changed by something they had no control over. 
> 
> Emma in this story shares a name and some traits of Emma Gonzalez, one of the gun control activists and survivors of the shooting whose name has come to prominence during the protests.
> 
> Also, if you believe more guns are the answer you probably won't like this story.
> 
>  
> 
> XXXXXX

March

 

Mr. Gold paid the driver and pulled himself away from the comfort of the taxi’s brown interior trying to ignore the war going on in his head, the impulse to run as far away as he could.

- _I don’t want to be here._

_-You’re here because the ones who deserved to be, the ones **should be** aren’t. And you’re the shit that’ left.  So suck it up and try not to make a hash of things.  Again. _

Under the pressure of his mind’s own prodding, Gold dragged himself awkwardly up the steps to the capitol building.  It was slow going, clutching the railing in one sweaty hand and his cane in the other, still not used to coordinating the movement of his real foot with the artificial one.  In hindsight he guessed it was a stupid idea to go to the rally wearing the prosthetic, but he didn’t fancy taking all those steps with crutches.  Shielding his eyes against the sun he looked down the street.  The cab wasn’t there anymore, but at least the driver couldn’t have gone too far yet.  He could still phone and then he could go home, out of this insanity, prop himself up on the deckchair in the backyard under the old striped beach umbrella, with a cold ice tea and a novel.  It would be so nice not to have to worry about people staring, to just kick back and relax. 

_Only because you’re afraid.  But why should this be any different?  You’re afraid all the time now anyway. You jump when you hear the neighbor’s dog barking._

It was true.

He looked down and stared his ugly new tennis shoes, -- _just think about the steps--_ ignoring the impossible stairway looming up in front of him and the frighteningly noisy crowd gathered on the portico above.   

He was sweating profusely now.  Underneath his jacket he could feel his shirt starting to stick to his back and under his arms.  He promised himself he’d take it off when he got to the next landing, but at this rate he was sure he’d cook to death before he ever got there.  He was glad he’d chosen the drawstring linen trousers.  Even if they _were_ white at least they didn’t slide ridiculously below his hips like so many of the others in his closet tended to do these days.  All those kids he’d sent to the principal’s office over the years for dress code violations of the baggy trouser variety would’ve had a field day.

_-Everyone’s staring at you._

He took a quick look around, but no, he was just being paranoid _._ No one was looking in his direction, all eyes focused on the makeshift stage and the teenagers waving banners. “Remember the Pulse.” “Never Again.”  He wondered how many of them had learned that particular phrase in his classroom unit on the Holocaust.  It felt weird to see it in this context, outside a printed history book.

_Anyway, let them stare if they want, whatever makes them change their minds, whatever lets them see the price of their so-called fucking hobby,_ he told himself.

_Except this isn’t the price, not **really,** _ wheedled his traitorous mind, _you’re still alive, after all._

_Sometimes it was so hard to ignore that voice inside that seemed like it had been with him since birth, always cutting down, making every effort feel so futile, even more so now, at the worst possible time, when he needed all the strength he could muster just to persevere, to believe he could change things, that maybe he survived for a reason._

But it just didn’t make sense.  He was so much older.  He’d already had plenty of time to do what he wanted, to make his puny mark on the world; have sex, go to uni, get married, have kids.

And he’d pissed so much of what he had away.  James and the rest, they never even got a chance to try-- all they could have been or done stolen away in a moment—just so some jackass could continue to have the pleasure of playing Rambo on the weekend. 

It wasn’t like he had much pride left after all that had happened. Sometimes it felt like everything, all those petty concerns he’d once cared so much about seemed so far away, like it was someone else entirely standing in front of all those kids, saying:  “Make sure those shirts are tucked in, remember you’re representing the school here”—“No chewing gum in the hall”—“Your report doesn’t have your name on the first page!”—“See me!” in red pen-- Had that really been him?  Docking students’ essay marks for improper alphabetization or confusing primary with secondary sources, all these petty, insignificant things he’d once argued so vociferously with his colleauges about while marking papers over lunch—all this stupid crap that seemed so important at the time, that never really mattered, just puffing themselves up with the small power they wielded over their young charge’s lives. 

And now they weren’t alive. 

And it felt like everything extraneous in him had burned away with the fever of his illness, until only the essential part of what he was remained.

And that part was proud.  Proud of all the kids, _his_ kids, were doing.  Emma especially.

It wasn’t hard to imagine them— the really bright lights, the classroom leaders, Ruby, James, Catherine, Frederick, Jasmine and the rest of the missing, standing like an invisible Greek chorus behind her as she spoke to the crowd her voice trembling, close to tears, rising and cracking with emotion, but never failing, even when the tears came, fighting her way through to call BS on the politicians in the building behind her, those who sat idly by, offering  thoughts and prayers, publicly lamenting the latest tragedy, all the while lining their bloody pockets with the NRA’s money.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gold reflects on how the shooting and dealing with his injuries has changed Bae.
> 
> XXX

Finally, he made it to the top of the steps. Even here it seemed no one had come alone like he had.  He remained on the fringes of the group, only half listening to the speeches.  It had all been said before, yet no one in power had listened.  A part of him, thought it was useless, all this fuss and bother, that it would change nothing.  All he’d have for his troubles at the end of the day were more nightmares, an aching leg stump and a cabinet full of powders and pain pills and a profession he loved, but felt too broken to return to.

But dammit, a person had to do _something._

They deserved that much, the others who couldn’t be here.  And he had failed in so much else, in spotting the danger, in protecting those whose charge was his protect, even if a part of him knew that he couldn’t have really done anything.  Not against rage like that and a semi-automatic.  And anyway, it was over now, that part of it anyway.  The only thing to do was move forward, to use that emotion in a positive way—to try to enact _change_ , to show Bae he wasn’t _just_ a coward, trembling in the prison of their house, afraid of everything outside, every sound and situation with other people in it. 

-Maybe Bae and the rest of them can be tricked, but you can’t fool yourself.  Inside, you _know._

The inner voice slipped through his internal efforts to keep himself together, like a slippery eel, twisting through the cracks in logic to find the true heart of his insecurity. 

And he couldn’t even vote in this country, how could he stop it?  At any rate, it helped ease the feelings of despair and helplessness somewhat and he’d take anything to fight back against the darkness, to just get through another day.

 Even if this march did nothing, he reminded himself, he knew all about the long arc history, he taught it for God’s sake—the fall of the Jim Crow laws and the end of the Vietnam war—even if this march did nothing, if people kept on fighting, marching, resisting and boycotting—“yet she persisted”-- in the end that persistence _would_ work. 

But what it wouldn’t do was bring back the dead.

And he couldn’t face it—it was just too hard—the new kids sitting at the desks where the old kids sat—knowing what had happened to them on his watch.  His disability pay would run out eventually and then what would he do?

If only he’d just had more sessions with the trauma psychiatrist at the hospital—but no, he’d hated that— and all that ERP—exposure response stuff had been a resounding failure and there was only so much his insurance would pay for—too many out of pocket expenses on things health insurance didn’t really cover—more physio, mobility aids, drugs, a new socket for the prosthetic, when the first one proved too uncomfortable.  Even if he’d get some of that money back in the end, he still had to pay for it through his health insurance in the beginning and that meant racking up more credit card debt until the other money came through. 

Then there was the lawsuit against the Florida government some of the parents had launched, but if he ever saw a penny from that it’d be years and years down the road with no money coming in from work, unless he could get back to teaching or find some other way to pay the bills. 

He’d even had to swallow his pride and accept a check from his ex-wife Milah of all people, just to pay for Bae’s March art break camp in Washington, at the National Gallery.  Bae of course had said he didn’t want to go, that it was a luxury they couldn’t afford now, that he’d stay and help Rum with his recovery, but Gold insisted.  He’d seen the way Bae’s face and attitude had changed this past few months, how he’d grown quieter, less immature and silly, less mischevious and frivolously imaginative-- _less like a child_.    And when people complimented on how mature Bae was, how sensible and strong—how resilient it secretly made his stomach turn over inside him.  He didn’t want that—not for Bae. Bae should be free to live the life of a normal American teenage.  He wasn’t _supposed_ to be his father’s chauffeur or home care assistant. 

Gold could only feel shame when he realized Bae had cancelled his date with a friend, because he had to take his dad to fucking PT.  He didn’t want Bae to become serious and boring like everyone else.  He shouldn’t be the adult—the responsible one, making sure his dad took his medications at the right time, and didn’t pass out on the couch afterwards, but went to sleep in bed—getting groceries from the supermarket, doing the laundry and the cleaning.  It distressed Gold to see Bae grow this old before his time, filled with worries and cares for money and survival exactly the way he had been as a boy, even after Gold had tried so hard to keep it from happening that way. 

His own childhood had been marred by a father he constantly had to cover for, who drank and gambled away their money and put his needs above his child’s own.  He remembered hiding things from the other kids and teachers at school, the bruises, the missed lunches and wariness of all adults.  It was his job to sell things off when funds got low and take part-time jobs just to keep their creditors off their backs.  Bailing Malcolm out of jail—looking after himself and his father like he was the older one of the two, and then looking after his father, hating and still loving him despite himself all through his final illness as his lifestyle finally caught up with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> XXXXX  
> Writing this in the early morning to keep up with a self-imposed deadline. Sorry for typos, grammar issues etc.   
> Now back to bed for some shut eye before work.   
> XXXX


	3. Chapter 3

His own childhood had been marred by a father he constantly had to cover for, who drank and gambled away their money and put his needs above his child’s own.  He remembered hiding things from the other kids and teachers at school, the bruises, the missed lunches and wariness of all adults.  It was his job to sell things off when funds got low and take part-time jobs just to keep their creditors off their backs.  Bailing Malcolm out of jail—looking after his father and himself at the same time, like he was the older of the two.  Then the final illness, at Malcolm’s bedside, life slowly eking away, hating and still loving his father despite himself as Malcolm’s intemperate lifestyle finally caught up with him. 

Then paying off his father’s debts when the old man finally passed on.  The strange and shameful sense of relief he felt at Malcolm’s death that now at last he’d be free to lead his own life.  Any mistakes he made from then on would on would be solely his own.  Not that he hadn’t made some whoppers, but at least he thought about what he was doing, contemplated the mistakes and tried to learn from them.  Whereas his father—he didn’t think the man even realized what he was doing—taking Gold’s childhood away—putting so many burdens on his small shoulders, pushing him down.  At least he tried to stay aware of what was going on with Bae, but would that be enough to make a difference in the long run?  He was reminded of a quote by Eli Weisel—“the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference.”  And Malcolm had been an indifferent parent—not cruel on purpose, but self-absorbed to the point of neglect. 

Gold had tried to do everything the opposite of his father, to make sure Bae didn’t have take on such adult burdens before he was ready, to give Bae choices, experiences, opportunities he himself had never had—to not have to make money right away—to have the luxury to be free to choose his own path no matter where it led—to make mistakes and have them not be the end of his future—but the shooter had taken all that away. Gold was watching his son’s college fund dwindle week by week as he tried to keep up with all the bills he’d never anticipated for hospital stays, medications, occupational therapy and new artificial parts. 

Now Bae was acting grown up and Gold found himself feeling like a baby again, especially in the beginning being pushed around in a chair, unable to do the simplest things like go to the bathroom or get dressed by himself.  At least that part—thank God—had improved.  He could get around by fairly competently now and do most things he need to do as a human for himself again, even if the process was slow and awkward at times.  He could take his time most days. It wasn’t like he had anywhere pressing to go or anyone to watch him hopping or crawling around.  He’d be able to drive his car again soon and was beginning to use the temporary prosthetic they’d given him more regularly.  In a year or so, when he could use a permenant one all the time, nobody outside the house would ever have to know that he was any different than how he used to be or that he didn’t have two real legs like most other people.  At least that’s what they told him at the clinic. 

But in a way it didn’t matter.  In his own heart of hearts he knew it was really just acting, pretending he wasn’t changed inside—that he didn’t cringe at every loud noise—that the sound of the garbage truck banging the bins outside his window didn’t send him hiding under the bed in his underwear—that he hadn’t started to stammer again, like he had when he was just a wee lad. 

He’d started going outside again, to the store or the bank to run a few simple errands close to home.  Still, there would be moments when he suddenly found himself panicked, unable to talk, his mouth dried up unable to push the words out,  he who used to talk in front of thirty kids or more without breaking a sweat.  He, who used to control the most unruly of classes, filled with teenagers who towered over his slight form, with a combination of dark sarcasm, dry wit and an insistence on strict adherence to the rules no matter who a student thought they were.


	4. Chapter 4

The doctors said they didn’t think the small bit of shrapnel that had hit him in the head had done any permenant damage.  Certainly it hadn’t lodged in any brain or skull tissue, but then why couldn’t he go back to work?  Why did the very thought of it cause the air to evaporate from his lungs and his palms to sweat like Niagara Falls?

Every year at the beginning of each semester  he would help his incoming class draft a classroom contract.  It was a set of laws to govern classroom behavior that the kids came up with all on their, (with some suggestions from him, of course) that they all had to agree to abide by—a kind of social contract for the new school year.  He found it gave the students ownership of the rules they had to live by and they were happier to follow those than something dictated from the top down.  The creation of a mini-society with rules of its own segwayed easily into learning about the theory of social contracts in a democracy, the Tragedy of the Commons and the different systems of cooperative governance humans had invented to help address various problems in dealing with human nature when in groups.

He was considered strict with grades, but never arbitrary, always fair and consistent. He knew he had to be a cut above the rest just to get the job.  Years ago, he needed the sponsorship of the school to let him stay in the country and to get that, he needed to be better than any native born American.  It would always be much easier for a school board to hire someone they wouldn’t have to do all the immigration paperwork for a work visa.  It was difficult to prove it was worth the extra time and effort to sponsor him.  He’d only managed it by fluke of being able to teach math and chemistry in a pinch in addition to his other, more preferred subjects. 

It was hard to find STEM teachers here and the Florida boards didn’t pay particularly well compared to other states.  They had come to the U.S. originally for Milah to work in Disney on Ice.  There were no jobs for a failed Olympic ice dancing prospect back in Scotland, other than teaching skating at the local rink on the weekends.  They weren’t married and Milah would have gone with or without him he knew, but he was up for an adventure then.   Years later he finished his teacher training and Bae was born.  Eventually both he and Milah were able to get green cards, back in those halcyon pre-Trump days.

Of course, by that time she was away from home for weeks at a time as part of a Frozen themed ice show on a Disney Caribbean cruise ship. He knew she had to take to job, jobs in professional ice dancing being in relatively short supply.  Unfortunately, she also met Captain Killian Jones on board, and fell in love with both him and the cruise ship entertainer lifestyle.  Now she was away with now-husband Killian for most of the year on various Disney cruises. It made the most sense for Bae to live with Gold for the school year, since Milah never stayed in town for long. 

Since that time, caring for Bae and teaching his high school students had been Gold’s life.  He didn’t really have time for any hobbies and had never been the sort of person who made new friends easily.

He supposed he could have left the States and returned to Scotland, but he’d already been spoiled by the Florida weather and made a bit of a steady career for himself.  Bae had friends at school and liked his classes and it was good for him to see his mother when she was in port. 

In the balance, Gold supposed their partnership wasn’t entirely a failure—somehow despite their lack of standard parenting models in their own youths, Bae—sweet, kind, patient Bae-- had turned out a pretty awesome kid and Gold was unbelievably proud of him.

 Being a (mostly) single parent, without any family in town wasn’t easy.  It was so hard not to second guess yourself without anyone to tell you the right way to go about things.  Luckily, his “aunts” in Glasgow who’d raised him were still just a phone call away.  He reckoned that in his own way he probably did all right without all the parenting books and unsolicited, outdated advice from well-meaning, but clueless older family members that lots of his female colleagues with kids complained about in the staff room.  If there was one thing he’d learned early on in —one size fits all teaching doesn’t work with kids—they’re all individuals.  You get the most from them when you act as a guide and resource for information and a facilitator for their own exploration.

Obviously, in some realms Bae as a young child with little life experience and a lack of long term perspective couldn’t’ be trusted to make decisions on his own.  He was brushing his teeth and taking his asthma inhalers whether he wanted to or not.  But in everything else Bae led him in the parenting department.  Bae clearly knew for himself what he liked, what he felt comfortable with and what he didn’t.

Sometimes you had to pick your battles.  Although he would’ve liked Bae to play sports, Bae had never really showed an interest or aptitude.  Balls flying at his head always sent him flinching away.  He preferred to draw pictures instead. Gold knew what his own father would have said about that, but he couldn’t imagine thinking negatively about anything Bae cared about.  He loved Bae so much that whatever Bae was interested in, as long as it did no one else any harm, was good to his fond eyes. 

Nowadays Bae was interested in an animation career.  He’d always loved Disney movies, anime and manga comics.  At fifteen years old he was already taking life drawing and had a comicly blasé attitude about nudity that Gold knew was rather at odds with his romantic experience, (he was pretty sure Bae had never even kissed or been kissed by a member of either sex). 

That was one thing they never told you in parenting books—how you’d discover entirely new interests and worlds of knowledge you never even realized even existed through the eyes of your child.  Learning all about art and taking an interest in it, at his advanced age was a pleasant surprise to Gold.    The March Break Art Camp had been his own idea originally, inspired by a flyer he’d seen at Bae’s weekend art class.  Bae had been ambivalent about going sleeping away from home for a whole week at first, but after the first year Gold knew he tended to miss Bae more than Bae missed him. 

In previous years Gold never had trouble keeping himself busy during the break while Bae was away.  Then was the usual backlog of student work to grade and SAT and ACT-taking crash courses to teach.  However being partially exploded by a homemade bomb under his desk and seeing his students shot before his eyes had meant this March break wouldn’t be like others. 

He’d always seen Bae off to camp on his own, but this year it wasn’t possible.  Even though his beloved Cadillac had been altered at much expense, with a left foot gas pedal to accomadate his missing right leg and a transmission newly converted from manual to automatic from a manual to automatic transmission, he still didn’t have the doctor’s permission to drive it yet, due to all the industrial strength pain killers he was still on. 

This time around Milah and his younger replacement were there to see Bae off in the school parking lot.  At least, thought Gold bitterly, he’d been able to cage a ride in the back seat.  It had been generous of them to even invite him, he reminded himself.  Still he spent most of the ride in a stew of seething resentment, feeling every time the high slung silver SUV went into a pothole or over a speed bump too quickly and jolted his bad leg, Killian was doing it on purpose. 

He’d look over in the rear view mirror at Gold in the back with his perfect smile all gleaming white and say in his cheerful Irish brogue,  “A’right back there mate?” Gold stared balefully at his crutches on the floor of the car and imagined beating Killian over the head with the closest one at hand until the infuriating man shut the hell up. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid I'm going to be late for work, but I just had to finish typing up this chapter today. I have never really made myself cry while writing something, but this-- both times, when I first wrote it and now typing it up and editing it-- when I get to the part where Gold is just so happy to be in a world that contains Bae I just can't help but cry, no matter that I'm in a Starbucks in public! This is probably one of the "realest" things I've ever written in terms of how I feel about my son. I am so glad to be in this world that contains him and I want so desperately to make this into a world that's worthy of someone so sweet and innocent of cruelty and harshness. I also talked about some of the emotions I've experienced during recoveries I have had over the years from periods of major depression. 
> 
> Every time there is that one day where you first feel something other than sad, or this dead-inside husk, for the first time in ages, like you've come back to life again, and all this amazing stuff around you that's been there all along just suddenly hits you full force in this particular way, where all of sudden you can feel the beauty of the world around you in this intense amazing way(not just noticing, oh it's a nice day outside in an objective sense, the sun is out, without really feeling it in a visceral sense). That's the feeling I was going for in this chapter. 
> 
> The stuff about Bae finding Gold is related very much to some of the challenges my partner and parents have gone through caring for emotionally labile parents with chronic illness and disability. Dealing with someone who refuses to acknowledge their physical limitations and gets angry at you for providing mobility aids because they see it as scary or insulting can be very difficult, for everyone involved. Luckily for Gold, he will get off the medications and feel clearheaded and less depressed pretty soon. There is definitely hope on the horizon for him. (But this isn't a magic universe so he doesn't somehow miraculously get his leg back because that would be bullshit). 
> 
> Thanks for your continued support and reading dear friends! Love to you all!

Milah and Killian chattered together in the front of the car, throwing the occasional question in the direction of the backseat to Baelfire when they felt some comment was needed to draw him out.  Like Gold, Bae seemed content to answer in monosyllables, his mind clearly elsewhere. 

Even this deep into his own despair Gold couldn’t help notice that something was troubling his son.   Usually he’d be hopping about like a puppy, chomping at the bit to see get on the bus and go.  This morning though, he’d seemed hesitant, checking and rechecking his bag, going back into the house for things he said he’d forgotten, which had turned out to not be much more than a water bottle and an extra pair of sneakers he needed for some unfathomable reason. 

“What’s wrong son?” asked Gold, as sotto-voiced as he could. 

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright when I’m away?” asked Bae softly.

Gold felt his stomach drop inside him.  He cleared his throat to keep himself from crying.  He couldn’t believe he’d come to this.  With a pang he remembered the first time he’d left Bae at home alone without a babysitter.  When had their roles reversed? 

“Ach, don’t be ridiculous, I’ll be fine,” Gold replied gruffly. 

“Will you use the shower seat then, the one I got you?” 

Gold glanced up front to see if Milah or Killian had heard, but they seemed oblivious, each talking on separate cell phones.

“We went over this,” sighed Gold, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  It was hard not to recall the occasion that had necessitated Baelfire buying the contraption in the first place.  His first week out of hospital he had fallen, trying to hop back from an unexpectedly cold spray in the shower. “I was just getting use to balancing back then.  I can manage fine now.” 

“Papa please…” pleaded Bae, with that heartbreakingly earnest puppy dog look in his large brown eyes that Gold could never resist.  “Do this for me.”

“Fine—“ gritted out Gold, “but only to put your mind at ease, yeah?  Not because I need it, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah I know, no worries.”

Gold gave Bae a skeptical once over.  “I’m not some decrepit auld pensioner or something, alright?”

Bae smiled and snuggled into Gold’s side the way he had as a sleepy little tyke when they watched TV together or Rum read him a story.  Unexpectedly he felt the prickly feeling under his eyelids that meant the tears were on their way.  It was the medication, he told himself, just making his emotions more labile lately.  But the sting in his nostrils and lump in his throat told him something quite different. 

As much as he’d wanted to die from humiliation at that moment; half-dazed from hitting his head, lying naked and aching, trying unsuccessfully to crawl out, crying from the pain and the shame and fury at what had been done to him, staring down at his maimed body, knowing he would have to call out for Bae to come in and help him, dreading the moment Bae would arrive and see him in this weakened state; And yet, just sitting the car with Bae now, he was so very glad to be alive, to be able to hold his son in his arms, to get a chance to watch him grow into the wonderful man he knew he would be, to read him one more story, to sit beside on the couch and watch one more episode of Voltron together.  Just be in a world that contained him, no matter how—even here in this car feeling every inch the useless git next to Milah’s new husband, all the rest didn’t matter.  Bae loved him, loved him more than any other person in the world.  He knew it and just like he knew he’d protect him and use whatever strength was left in his body to give this little boy the world and to help make a world that was better, that was worthy of him.

He pushed the button and the window went down to halfway, the breeze whipping his hair, grown out longer now that it had ever been since he was a teenager into his upturned face. The sky was blue, brilliant blue in a way it never seemed to be in the land of his birth.  The wind carried the sound of gulls and the smell of the ocean to him, salty and free.  He thought of the water and the beach and the sea that glittered along beside the highway like an old friend as they drove.  He’d go to that sea and swim with Bae in the water once more.  It would be difficult, but certainly not impossible.  He would make it happen.  He could make so many things happen if he just relaxed and gave it time, but he didn’t concentrate on that. 

For a moment he let it go, all the worries about the struggles to come and relaxed into the gentle pressure of Bae’s warm body against his like a cozy hot water bottle, snuggling into him as Gold ruffled his unruly brown curls.  Together they breathed exactly in synch, Papa and son and it was like they shared one mind, looking out at the window, aware once more of how beautiful the world could still be.  Somehow in this moment, despite his cynicism and fear for their future, he couldn’t help feeling overwhelmed by the palm trees above them and the brilliant green of the mangrove swamps, the intoxicating scent of fresh sea air, the comfort of being with the one you loved and the endless possibility of this gorgeous day. 


	6. Chapter 6

He knew it would be hard to say good-bye to Bae at the bus outside the school – not _the_ school thank God Bae went to an arts magnet school, not the one Rum had taught at, the one whose name everyone around the world now suddenly seemed to know.  They stopped in the parking lot and Rum sucked in his breath before hopping out of the car, waving Killian’s irritating offer of an arm to help him get out away.  He’d be damned if he let _that man_ pity him or assist him in any way.  Milah at least knew him well enough not to offer him her arm.   Despite the missing leg and longer, greying hair, he still hadn’t changed _that_ much.  He was still fiercely proud and independent and hated even the hint of someone else being in control of anything in his life.  Bae who, by now was quite practiced in this maneuver, waited until his father’s had a good stable lean on the side of the car, before handing his crutches up to him.  Gold felt an absurd sense of comfort to feel the sturdy implements back in his hands again. He had only been using crutches for a couple of months, but he already felt naked and anxious without them.

It bummed him out not to be able to help Baelfire with his bag, but it was only packed for a week and Bae managed the small sports duffle perfect well on his own.  In fact, Rumford Gold was the only one breaking a sweat, loping up the barely perceptible (to a person not on crutches at any rate), incline of the parking lot under the bright Florida sun. 

With the lack of cloud cover and humidity, a March day in Florida was already as hot as Scotland at the peak of summer, cooking them all on the black treeless tarmac.  Other kids and parents were milling about the Greyhound coach, chucking luggage into the opening in the bottom, sipping iced coffees.  They seemed  oblivious to the heat, just killing time, while Gold stood there dripping with sweat from the climb.

There were kids from all over the county in the parking lot. Four high schools had offered this March break trip—including Rum’s old school he now realized.  He’d forgotten about that, but remember now, like it was just yesterday, collecting the permission slips and cheques.  What had happened to the cheques from the students who’d died? he wondered now, feeling slightly macabre. 

He’d not realized they’d be there, some of the parents he knew from his school.  Not the parents of the murdered students, thankfully, but there were others, and seeing them now still frightened him.

When the first parent approached him he tensed as if waiting for the blow, for someone to tell him he had some nerve showing up here. More than anything, he wanted desperately to run away, but he couldn’t run anymore.  The only hope left to him, was that they wouldn’t see him and just walk on by.


	7. Thoughts and Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hat line about “dark sarcasm in the classroom” from Pink Floyd’s “the Wall” you’d think was written specifically for him-- and yet—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will continue to run until the laws change!  
> XXXXXXXX

But they weren’t angry or upset to see him there.  Instead after the bus left and the excitement of getting the kids on board was over, they approached him with…sympathy, caring?  Why?  He felt deep inside he didn’t deserve it.  It threw him off balance.  Couldn’t they see he was an imposter?

Honestly, he’d never really thought of any of the parents trying to do him a favour “just because.”    He’d always judged parental largesse to be more about buttering him up to give their offspring better grades, (all the better to get into that Ivy League University my dear!) than any particular affection they had for him personally. Maybe years of teaching had made him overly cynical, but he just couldn’t see it. He’d never been one of those cuddly, chummy one-of-the -guys teachers kids found easy to love.  He knew he was an ugly, prickly bastard. That line about “dark sarcasm in the classroom” from Pink Floyd’s “the Wall” you’d think was written specifically for him--  and yet—

He saw their faces, soft and sorrowful with honest concern and heard the sincerity in their voices when they asked “How are you feeling?  When did you get out of the hospital?  How are you holding up?  What do you _need?”_

 _I needed this,_ he thought _.  I need to feel that what I did mattered._

He wanted to cry, but somehow a few self-deprecating remarks, faint echoes of the old sarcasm managed to surface to show them he was still the same old Mr. Gold.  He wondered, drily what shocked them more, the cargo shorts he was wearing or the bandaged stump poking out the end?  

They laughed uncomfortably with him at this and he felt sorry for making them feel awkward on purpose.  Their intentions were good.

A few people said “sorry we didn’t visit when you were in the hospital,” but he wasn’t sorry— he hadn’t wanted to see any other humans at that time anyway. 

“Thank you for the flowers you sent, seriously they were more than enough," he improvised. "They really cheered the place up.”  What he didn't say was that he was too tripped out on the morphine drip to notice anything then.  He really didn't want to hurt their feelings, and since when had that been a priority for him?

A number of people asked “When are you coming back?”

This last one gave him pause and made the humid air feel like weighted lead all around him, pushing, pressuring him from every quarter.  The unasked question and unstoppable worry— _**Can**_ **you go back? Will you _ever_ be strong enough?  ** consumed his thoughts day and night now.

A simple “we miss you” touched him most though. 

"I thought I’d never get a chance to tell you," said the woman with the blue bandana tied around her hair, "how much Hayden loved your class, she was getting so bored and disinterested with school before. I know it’s not cool to care about stuff in high school and people make fun of kids who are too into their classes.  She had a hard time.   You know how adults, other kids, just write them off--   The boys used to make fun of her and tried to talk over her when she said things in other classes, like the other teachers would just let it happen, pretend they didn’t hear--- but you weren’t like that Mr. Gold.  You were always different.  You stood up for her, took her seriously.   It gave her confidence. Look, I know what it’s like growing up as a precocious young woman.  She’s at that age where people start to tune you out if you’re a girl, but you encouraged her to express herself, to write about the things happening in the world. She told me, that for the first time she started at that school, she felt her voice actually mattered—or at least it did in the confines of your class.  We’re just so sorry this had to happen.  I haven’t been able to make her go to school since Melanie died in your class. She won't leave even enter the building and part of me-- I understand.  Sometimes I feel like I don't want her to go back too.  Even when it's just going to the curb to get the paper, my heart’s in my mouth now every time she leaves the house. Look, I know other people have asked you, but really, do you need anything? Anything at all?


	8. Chapter 8

Sometimes at night when he was young and needed some escape from his father’s house he’d go out and walk along the water and stare at the stars and moon, the lights of the rusty shipping boats reflected in the black water, like stars of their own, and he would pretend he was an alien, with no knowledge of anything human, just recently dropped on Earth.

What would his perception of humanity be?

Well, that would depend on the day of the week, because, my God, what a mixed bag they were, human beings, a strange and unpredictable race.

It bowled him over, people’s kindness and generosity and ability to think of someone else, even when they themselves were hurting so badly— how did they still having enough energy somehow to reach out and offer to help someone else?  How many people had extended a hand to him?

But then how easy it was for one horrible act to black out all the kindness and effort, one destructive act to set a masterpiece of love on fire?  You could spend a lifetime gently coaxing a child’s talents into being, lavishing love and care, teaching, creating, building up trust and comradeship. 

He remembered Bae in Milah’s arms as he sucked at her breast and how she had to eat and drink afterwards and how sleepy it would make her.  It wasn’t just milk she was feeding him, he realized, but milk she was making _out of her own body_ , at great cost and effort to the rest of her, literally sacrificing her own flesh and sustenance to make little Bae grow—how could anyone think the love they had for owning some puny metal weapon compete with _that?_

_But why was it always so much harder to create than to destroy?_

It was strange to wander aimlessly around the house now.  To not have a role to play. 

Plenty of students hated him he knew, but he was happy to revel in his “bad guy” status, to play the heavy, like Al Pacino’s gangster character in “Scarface.” There was a role to fill for him there as the perpetual hard ass, the one who would give the marks he gave, whether parents came to plead with him or not, who just didn’t give a shit.

He kept himself to himself mostly.  He didn’t go out much for drinks with the other teachers after parents’ night or end of exams, but apparently people did care about him, missed him even and who would credit it?

And now they were treating him like a hero, when he felt like the exact opposite, but how could you explain to them how wrong they were, without looking like you were fishing for compliments?  It just felt so out of left field. 

Standing in the hot sun, feeling disoriented and groping for words, he was actually relieved to sense Milah’s growing impatience.  No one else would’ve noticed, but after all those years he knew the signs, the chomping a little too vigorously on a piece of Nicorette, which would have been the end of a cigarette back in the day, spinning the packet between her thumb and forefinger the way he remembered her twirling a box of fags when they were still married. 

“We should get going.  You look completely knackered,” she said, not unkindly.

And he felt that way too, it was true. 

Rumple pushed himself reluctantly off from the friendly planter he’d been resting his weight against.  Most of the others were dispersing now, heading back to their cars. He stared down the incline to the parking lot, rolling treacherously below him.  He felt exhausted and dizzy already just looking at how far he had to go and down hill all the way, which though often faster than uphill tended to be more treacherous. 

Milah tracked his gaze and dismayed expression.  “You want me to bring the car back up here to meet you?” she asked gently.

“Whatever’s convenient,” he shrugged secretly hoping she would bring the car up to meet him anyway.

“Okay you wait here.”

“Sure, thanks.” He sighed with relief at her retreating back as he watched her strut down the hill confident and sexy in those silly high-heeled sneakers and skinny jeans. Milah was still beautiful and deep down he knew despite their past acrimony that a part of him would still always fancy her no matter how old and decrepit he got.  Even if he thought putting high heels on sneakers totally defeated the purpose of them being sneakers in the first place. 


	9. Chapter 9

Somewhere on the periphery of his vision, he was aware of the presence of a blonde haired boy. As hyper-alert as Gold now was whenever he left the sanctuary of his own home, as studiously as he’d learned to cultivate an increased mindfulness of his surroundings, making note of every crack in the pavement that might trap the rubber tip of a crutch or errant toddler who might go barreling into him at top speed without thinking, his senses failed him now. 

Tiny bright lights, like fireflies darting in front of Gold’s eyes as he squeezed his truncated thigh to releave some of the pressure. Distantly, he was aware of a blonde youth in a gray t-shirt hovering about the edges of the largest group of parents handing out papers.  
Somewhere inside himself Gold was always observing now, making note of things like height and demeanor for future reports on suspects. He was tall, the boy, probably had only been so for a year at most and stooped when he talked to others, as if not quite used to being suddenly above their eye-level and discomforted by the presumption of superiority. It was the body language and the short cut hair that stopped Gold from recognizing him right away. The boy he knew had never stooped to defer to anyone. That boy walked with his shoulders thrown back, nose spearing the air above him, relishing every inch of his recently acquired height, lording it over the mostly shorter teachers, squaring his broad shoulders in doorways, preventing the girls from pushing through unless they had the proper “password.” Gold had soon put a stop to that. James had hated him for it of course, but respected him too, in a way. Tall as he was, James didn’t scare him. Beneath that dentist-perfect mocking grin, he was just like all the posh boys at Gold’s old Glasgow grammar school, pampered and soft, they looked impressive, but would fold on the first punch, the kind that didn’t know what it was to not have everything handed to him on a platter, to have to work for something with no guarantee of success in advance.  
Gold hadn’t expected to see him, so he didn’t see him, until he heard his unmistakable voice, and by then it was too late for him to get away.  
“Mr. Gold!” the boy called out and the voice, cracking into the upper registers on the “O” in his name, a voice clearly belonging to a teenage boy. 

Similar to the voices of many other teenagers in the air. Not his voice, because that couldn’t make sense.  
Still, feeling slightly on edge Gold pivoted on his crutches in the direction of the student.  
“C-c-can I help y--?” but even the stuttered words died on his lips because was James standing right there, alive and healthy as ever.  
“No, no, it can’t be…” he said so softly he wasn’t sure he was speaking at all and it wasn’t all in his head, like one of those morphine dreams, back at the hospital that seemed to bleed into reality and back out again.

Fragments, like broken glass memories shattered his coherent reality.  
Misher Gold help peeash peash hep meee  
James holding his hand to his neck and to his belly as it filled up with blood, bright red like cherries, like paint, eyes wide with fear, all arrogance vanished, just terrified, little boy, unprepared for any of this. He should have asked for his mother or father, but the only one he asked for was his brother. “Where’s David? Where’de go? It hurts! Oh God it—Dave help me!”  
Not his mother, not his father. David. His twin.  
Instantly, Gold snapped back to the present. Of course it wasn’t James, how stupid could he be? This was David. His identical twin brother.  
David waved at him uncertainly. “Uh, hi, uh Mr. Gold? I don’t know if you remember me. I’m David. You were with my brother, James.”  
When he said the name he blinked and the tears spilled over.  
Gold reached out and touched his arm, whatever good that could do. “Oh David, I’m, so sorry for your loss.” He heard himself speak in an uneven broken voice. “How are you doing?”  
David shrugged. “H-holding up. I guess?”


	10. Chapter 10

“I’m so-- so sorry for your loss.” Futile words, but it felt necessary, to say something at least. 

“Yeah, you too,” said David. “How’ve you been holding up?” 

“I’m alright,” said Gold gently, and strangely, as he said it, he realized it was actually true. He did feel alright. For short amounts of time he’d forget and feel fine and those times of okay-ness were getting longer, the farther the events of the shooting receded into the past.   
On rare occasions he could glimpse a future for himself that wasn’t terribly different than the one he’d imagined before. He could picture photos-- himself next to Bae in a cap and gown, or sitting, holding a tiny future grandchild in a protective embrace, maybe in a tuxedo giving a toast at Bae’s wedding or just sitting around at some boozy American football game, pissing Bae off by purposely cheering when the wrong team got a touchdown, pretending he didn’t understand the game. The small change of a cane in his hand didn’t alter the subject or emotional content of the pictures.   
Looking at David he realized that his loss was of a different magnitude. Gold knew he would go through the rest of his life with the story of his tragedy writ large on his body, for everyone to see, yet he wouldn’t trade places with David for all the world. Seeing David here, made him realize he hadn’t lost as much as he first thought. No one he loved had gone anywhere. Everyone he loved and everyone who loved him remained, present and accounted for.   
And David would go through life outwardly unmarked by tragedy, with half his soul cut away. 

He seemed so normal. He went back to school right after the funeral and it was easy to judge from what you saw on the surface—to forget that someone who looked so handsome and whole could be so broken inside. 

Poor David had never felt so utterly alone. There was a depth to that wound that even those who knew him best would ever truly understand. His embryonic heart had beat its first in time to the beat of his brother’s. Sharing a womb with him, he’d never lived a day in his life without James’ physical presence close at hand. They’d been together since before they’d even breathed their first gasp of air. He’d recognized James before he’d had any awareness of his own self as a human being. They shared a face and half a name, not to mention trousers and shirts and socks and shoes. They’d always been exactly the same height, never more than half a pound of difference in weight. 

They were so physically alike that people often commented with surprise on the difference in their personalities—David always so good, so obedient, too cautious to speak up, content to fade into the background; James so loud and cocky, with a different girlfriend it seemed for everyday of the week and no compunction for saying whatever the hell he felt like. James, who could be ruthless when it came to the feelings of others.   
But others didn’t see how alike they were, how much they depended on each.


End file.
